


Three Days to New Austin

by orphan_account



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bikers, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Time Skips, phone tracking? who she?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:09:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24207991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: To Arthur, Ambarino feels like a snowy dead-end.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 71





	Three Days to New Austin

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Nothin'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18094406) by [helvel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/helvel/pseuds/helvel). 



> Okay so first off - many disclaimers: this fic is based along the theory of Dutch becoming the villain he is known as by the end of the game because he simply was like that the whole time, his true intentions becoming less and less hidden overtime. Therefore Arthur sees it earlier and plans on leaving the gang earlier. Basically a fix-it fic of sorts disguised as a biker au. 
> 
> Also, trying to plan out a road trip based on fake locations using real locations while using the ingame map with said fake locations?? very hard, very difficult. Basically, this fic is a mess. 
> 
> Also, also, the original title of this fic was "Arthur catches feelings in the span of a three-day road trip"
> 
> And, as mentioned above, this was inspired by helvel's Nothin'. It's a really lovely fic and a really lovely modern au and you should go check it out if you haven't already. :)

Dutch shoots a girl in cold blood, right in the head. After that, he’s telling Arthur that he needs to soak their Blackwater clubhouse in gasoline. Torch it and burn it to the ground so the Blackwater Police Department can’t collect any more evidence, so they can’t have anything belonging to the gang in their own possession. 

Arthur asks, “What about our stuff?” 

Personal items belonging to each and every member of the gang are still in that clubhouse. Pictures, clothes, memories, money. Arthur’s thousands of dollars, a few of his old journals, letters from Mary Linton that grow progressively cold over time if you read them in order. 

Dutch says there’s no time, we can buy new possessions. We can’t buy our freedom. 

There’s so much that Arthur doesn’t understand. 

He wasn’t in Blackwater during the time of the robbery. He was with Hosea, working on their own lead. A much more safer route that wouldn’t have them vacating their home on a second’s notice. 

John and Javier are already standing behind him with gasoline cans, at the ready. Maybe they know it’s no use to argue, when Dutch is like it. Arthur has never seen Dutch like this. 

“What happened back there, Dutch?” Arthur asks. 

He needs to know, just so he can make some sort of sense of this. The only pieces he’s been given are jagged and undetailed. Dutch fucked up, shot some poor girl to death. Jenny, Mac, and Davey are dead. John got shot but he’s okay, just a graze, nothing serious. Sean got arrested. 

A puzzle with a big fucking hole in the middle. 

Dutch picks up the gas can at Arthur’s feet, shoves it into his hands. “We missed you, that’s what happened. Now put this place out of its misery.”

Arthur does as he’s told, leads the way into their clubhouse with John and Javier in tow. 

Slow, paced steps that echo off the walls that make the place seem even more empty. The lights are turned off, no music is playing. Just gray walls with a bunch of clutter. A wasteland. 

“I’m gonna miss this place,” Javier says, but wastes no time popping off the lid to the gas can and pouring a trail leading into one of the other rooms. Dutch’s orders. Quick and easy, and then they’re ghosts. 

The gesture’s so ironic. Sentimental over something self-destroyed. John follows suit. So does Arthur, purposely making his trail to his own room. 

None of them understand the reason for doing so, they just do. Arthur’s still surprised at the own intention of rebellion that popped in his head when Dutch said there wasn’t any time to save belongings. He’s not just gonna let his life savings burn to a crisp. Dutch would have to be insane to believe Arthur would. 

Then again, maybe he is. Maybe he was all along. 

Arthur stuffs his stack of hastily folded dollars into the front pocket of his jeans. His leather jacket comes down just below the pocket, thankfully, so it’s not noticeable if you don’t know what to look for. 

He walks out after drenching his own room in gasoline, and the whole building stinks of it now. Suffocating. He tells John, “You’re gonna have to fill me in on what happened back there. Since Dutch is being stingy on details all of a sudden.” 

John says he’ll tell him later. 

\- - -

“Alright, boys, light it up.” Dutch’s voice is so detached. Like it’s the O’Driscoll’s clubhouse they’re torching and not their own. Still, Arthur does as he’s told. John and Javier follow suit. 

Their safe haven, their home. Up in flames within an instance. Hosea’s wearing this look at Arthur very much feels deep in his chest. Defeated. Lost. 

Dutch’s face is so blank in comparison.

They all stand out on the sidewalk and watch their clubhouse burn. They all watch like it’s fireworks. Mouths hanging open, or pressed into a tight line. None of them not quite knowing what to say at this moment to make it any better. The silence is almost unbearable, but nobody speaks. 

\- - -

Hosea tells them that Charles is hauling the bikes to Ambarino. That’s where they’re relocating. Grizzles West to be exact. Mountains and harsh winters covering everything in deep snow. Miles and miles of nothing. 

Hosea tells them most of the gang is on the road already, and Charles is hauling the bikes in a transport truck because the Blackwater Police will be searching for an excessive amount of bikes on the road for miles around. Riding in cars - in cages - is safer, they’re not just out in the open. 

Arthur takes his own vehicle, a small, old two-door truck that he’s had for years. The truck’s older than he is, or just damn near it. 

They’re all broken up into groups, or however many of them can be crammed together in the limited supply of vehicles they have access to. Arthur gets stuck with John, who is still very much sour on the whole idea of being stuck inside a cage for the next 800 miles. He makes his opinion on the subject known, in which Dutch retaliates swiftly. 

Dutch tells John he always has the option of joining young Sean in the finest jail cell the Blackwater Police Department has to offer. Dutch tells him to have faith. 

Faith in the fact they’ll be running from Grizzles West soon enough if Dutch doesn’t regain his bearings. 

Their Blackwater clubhouse is still being engulfed in flames by the time they all head out for Ambarino. 

\- - -

With his feet propped up on the dashboard of Arthur’s truck, John wastes no time making himself at home. Constantly adjusting the seat to suit his ever-changing favor. Fiddling with the radio stations until Arthur has to snap at him to just pick a damn station already. The perfect harmony of comfort and unease. 

His right arm, the arm he got shot in, just a graze that the bullet barely missed, is patched up under his jacket and is propped up on the window sill. 

It’s there that John finally explains what happened back in Blackwater. 

Arthur’s turned down the radio to a barely audible volume. There’s only so much heavy metal screaming he can take. John tells him the plan had originally been Micah’s. 

Of course. 

The take was supposed to be four million dollars worth of bank money that was being transported. Everything went smoothly at first, and then the Pinkerton Detective Agency, along with the Blackwater Police were everywhere. John wasn’t there when Dutch shot that woman, though. Javier was, and he said it was like seeing an entirely different side of Dutch. The Callanders and Jenny got shot and killed, Arthur already knew, and Sean got caught. They managed to get the take, but they couldn’t escape with it, so Dutch stashed it back in Blackwater. Nobody knows where but him and Hosea. 

“So, we got the take, then? Dutch has the four million?” Arthur asks. 

“That’s what he says,” John shrugs. He’s turned his attention to the scenery passing by as they pass by the outskirts of Blackwater. 

There’s something about this heist in Blackwater that just doesn’t sit right with Arthur. There could be two possible explanations as to how and why the gang was forced into an unwinning gunfight too soon to make sense. The Pinkertons and the cops got there too quick and there was way too many of them, and that leads Arthur to think of the option that maybe they were set up. Or, the other option being, which could go along with Dutch’s behavior, is that maybe the ways of the law or the ways of the world entirely were just updated. Dutch had the same methods to these plans of his that he had back years ago. Police response times were quicker, and it didn't help that anyone who knew of Dutch knew the whole song and dance he usually went with.

The world was changing, it only made sense that they adapt to these changes. This made sense to everyone except Dutch, apparently. Sure, he sent people scouting out these areas before they hit them but when it came down to laying out the groundwork, it was Dutch’s ideas and mind at work. This, of course, would be a fault. 

A fault that Dutch would rather risk than let go of his pride. The plans weren’t working anymore, they were tired and outdated, but nobody wanted to admit to it. 

Arthur loved Dutch, hell, he still loves the stubborn bastard, but he’s putting everyone else Arthur loves in danger. By conducting these heists and robberies based on faulty planning, Dutch is causing the sure decline of the Van der Linde gang. 

John’s fidgeting with the radio again, and Arthur must’ve been too far away in his head to notice because John’s settled back in his seat, another black metal song playing at a slightly louder volume than what Arthur preferred. He’s got this smug smile on his face but he’s eyeing Arthur out of the corner of his eyes like he’s waiting to see if Arthur is gonna turn the radio down again. 

Arthur decides to let John have his moment. 

“There’s something off about all this,” is all Arthur says, and he leaves it at that.

\- - - 

They stop at a hotel near Big Valley for the night with a few more hundred miles to go until they reach Ambarino. A chain hotel with nice stone walls and shiny hardwood flooring, covered in all hues of beige and tan. 

John reads off the name of the hotel when they pull up and yawns, maybe just to add a filler to the quiet, tense atmosphere they’ve spent most of the ride in. 

Arthur spent most of the drive with his eyes dead set on the road, thinking and thinking. About Dutch, about the gang, about Hosea, about that girl Dutch shot in the head, about Micah and the pathetic little way he’s been following Dutch around and whispering ideas into his ear since he joined the gang a few months back. 

John spent most of the drive having nothing to say but complaints and pointing out random bits of scenery they passed by. Horse. Cow. Billboard. Starbucks. 

“Call Dutch and tell ‘im where we are, I’ll go book us a room,” Arthur says, putting the truck in park. 

Arthur gets out and John is saying, “Why do I have to call ‘im?” Arthur shuts the door in response. 

John sighs, his frustration visible enough that Arthur can see it in his movements as he opens the door hops out of the passenger’s seat. 

“You call him,” John says over the roof of the truck. “I’m the one that got my ass chewed out for complaining about the cages.”

Arthur’s already passed by the front of the hood, stepping over the parking bumper his truck is parked behind. “Shouldn’t have complained, then,” he throws over his shoulder. 

He hears John breathe out another defeated sigh and the sound of the passenger door slam. Arthur has half a mind to turn around a give into John about not being careful with his truck but he decides against it and heads into the hotel lobby. 

Arthur books a room with two queen beds and pays with cash. He pockets the key cards given to him by the clerk and heads back outside to collect John. 

John’s still leaned up the side of the truck, preoccupied with his phone. The harsh blue light from it illuminates his face as he stares down at it, mouth set and brows tensed together. 

Arthur thinks about how the look seems to age his features. John’s always looked young for his age, yet another strike of luck he possesses from his seemingly limited supply. Maybe it’s his hair, which he’s always worn long and hanging in his face. Arthur thinks about what John would look like with short hair and dismisses the thought entirely. 

“You call Dutch?” Arthur asks when he gets a few feet away from him. John looks up like he was completely unaware of his presence and pockets his phone. 

“Yeah,” John answers. Short. He stuffs both hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and starts towards Arthur, towards the hotel. 

“What’d he say?” Arthur waits till John reaches him, turns, and matches his pace. 

“Said okay, that we’d meet up in Amarillo tomorrow.” That’s the end of that conversation, and it’s enough to satisfy Arthur. 

“What kinda room did you get?” John changes the subject, for which Arthur is a little grateful. 

They reach the hotel lobby, pass by a glass window displaying the interior pool in which John doesn’t even spare a glance at, and over to the elevators. Arthur says, “two beds.”

“Heat and A.C.?” John’s always been hot-natured, both in weather acclimation and temper. He freezes to death in 70-degree weather like he’s a hundred years old. Arthur just always assumed it was his thin frame, all spindly and bowlegged. 

Hosea said he had bell-bottom legs. Pair that with the long, greasy hair and John would’ve strived in the 70s. 

“Of course,” Arthur presses the button for the 3rd floor and the elevator doors close. “Every hotel’s got ‘em nowadays. That and mini-fridges.”

They’re whisked up to the correct floor within a matter of seconds and the doors open again, revealing gray, patterned carpet and the same beige color, now only on drywall. 

“Not every one,” John steps off the elevator first. He always has to have the last word. 

Arthur guides them to their room, unlocks the door, and John wastes no time picking his bed and throwing himself on top of it. 

\- - -

Arthur heads out again to grab dinner, he needs the excuse to get out anyway, and leaves John sitting at the foot of the bed, flipping through channels on the TV. 

Arthur asks John if he needs anything else except the double burger combo he ordered up when Arthur earlier announced he was going out for food. John says no, staring up at the TV with his mouth open and expression blank. Fish-like. He looks young again, and Arthur thinks it suits him. 

He’s gone maybe fifteen minutes and John’s still in the same position Arthur left him in. Arthur hands him his food and John sits on the bed cross-legged, eating from the bag. Arthur has to fight the smile that’s threatening to appear on his features, gives up, and lets it show with a shake of his head. 

The boy truly was raised in a barn. 

\- - -

“Arthur,” 

The room is illuminated in only the TV’s glow, John having insisted that he can’t sleep without it. Arthur’s used to sleeping in nothing but pitch black and complete silence when he gets the chance, so John settled for having the TV on mute but wouldn’t budge any further. An arrangement inherited from their days sharing a room back at the Blackwater clubhouse that Arthur should’ve known wouldn’t change now. 

Arthur’s lying on his stomach, face half-buried in the pillow. It wasn’t hard for him to fall asleep after the day they’ve all had. 

“Are you awake?” John’s voice stirs him into consciousness. God, it feels like he just fell asleep, surely it ain’t already morning-

“Arthur!” A little more persistent this time. 

“What? I’m asleep,” Arthur grumbles into his pillow. Feels like hurling it at John for waking him up. 

“I think there’s something wrong with Dutch,” John says, and this makes Arthur’s eyes snap open. 

“Why? What happened?” Arthur’s a little more alert this time, raising up on his elbows to look at his hotel roommate. 

“Nothing,” John assures quickly after noticing the look Arthur’s giving him. Wide-eyed and worried. Arthur drops himself back down against the sheets with a groan. “I mean like - just the way he acted today, especially after we all met up at the clubhouse. Like the lights were on but nobody was home.” 

Arthur had noticed, but he’s thought enough about it to do him for a lifetime. “I know what you mean,” Arthur lets his eyes shut once more. “But we’ll talk about it in the morning.” 

\- - -

They do talk about it in the morning, a couple of miles away from the hotel at a nearby Denny’s. 

Arthur has bacon, eggs, and coffee. John has blueberry pancakes and flirts with the waitress. 

Arthur says, “I don’t think I can do this anymore.” He’s briefly reminded of Mary, and how this had once been her words uttered in such a different context. 

John gives him a look that seems similar to the one Arthur’s sure he gave Mary after hearing this. Like he just broke his goddamn heart. 

“What d’you mean?” John’s fork is hovering over his pancakes like he’s frozen in time. The smug expression he’d been wearing after had charmed his way into some extra syrup completely wiped off his face. 

“I mean the gang - Dutch,” Arthur still eats with no disturbance, probably because of how difficult it would be to explain something like this without nothing occupying his hands. “Things are so different now, or maybe they’re the same but everything’s clearer, I dunno. I just - I don’t think I can be a part of the gang anymore.” 

Arthur’s never been a man of fancy, purposeful words like Dutch or Hosea. Maybe when provided with time to think them through, he proves to be something other than a bumbling idiot. Despite having thought of these words all day yesterday and all morning, Arthur still finds himself struggling. 

“You can’t just _leave_ ,” John whispers, ducks his head like Dutch is standing right behind them. Oh, how conditioned he is. 

“I can,” Arthur disagrees, fixes his gaze on John’s face and tries to maintain it into looking somewhat casual. “Don’t you think Dutch having us think we can’t leave is a little _cultish_?”

“I thought the whole idea in cults was that you could leave anytime you wanted to.” John finally takes a bite of his pancakes, although the worried look never leaves his features. 

“Yeah, but I mean -” Arthur rubs a hand over his face. “That’s what they claim to make it seem like they’re not a cult, but in reality, it’s ingrained into their heads that they’ve no other place to go. You can leave, but you can’t.”

“What’s your point?” John asks between a mouthful of food. Arthur can practically hear Hosea shaming him. 

“My point is that Dutch’s philosophy is starting to look to me like a whole lotta horseshit.” John quirks his eyebrows at this, like he’s surprised at Arthur’s words. Arthur doesn’t blame him, hell even he’s surprised. “Don’t get me wrong we’ve helped many people, but we’ve hurt a whole lot more. Despite that whole take from the rich and give to the poor stuff, Dutch’s own greed shines through every time.”

John has an expression on his face like he’s considering Arthur’s words but doesn’t want to admit to it. For once, he doesn’t have a retaliation. 

“Shoot those who need shootin’,” Arthur quotes Dutch’s words. “That girl back in Blackwater didn’t need shootin’, from what I heard. Dutch has been using people, using us from the beginning to get what he wants. Outcasts with no other place to go.” 

“He saved our lives, Arthur,” John says. 

“And he’s gonna _ruin_ our lives if he doesn’t give up his damn pride and admit he’s not quite the successful conman he once was. Jenny, Mac, Davey - that could’ve been one of us that ended up dead. Hell, you got shot because of this.” 

John thinks about this, the two of them eating in silence as Arthur’s words hang heavy between them. Then, he says, quiet, “Dutch never mentioned going back for Sean.” 

“No, he didn’t,” Arthur agrees. “ _Hosea_ said they’d break him out once things cooled off. Dutch stood there and watched the clubhouse burn down. He didn’t even let us grab our stuff from the clubhouse, John, just so he could have yet another upper hand over us. You can’t flee if you have no money.” 

“Shit,” this seems to hit him like a train. Things are clicking into place. “You think that’s why he did that?” 

“I dunno why he had us do that,” Arthur shrugs. “But I got my money, because that’s the last time Dutch is gettin’ the upper hand over me.” 

John sighs, his shoulders moving with it, and he slumps back against the booth like he’s realized one of the world’s greatest disappointments. “Where are you gonna go?”

This, Arthur hadn’t really given much thought yet. Somewhere far, far away from Dutch van der Linde. “I dunno, somewhere out west, maybe. I always liked the west.”

Silence falls between them once more until Arthur breaks it again. “I’d like you to come with me, if you want.” 

John looks up from his plate, looks Arthur right in his eyes and then glances away as if this is a staring contest he simply can’t compete in. “How are we getting our bikes back?” 

It isn’t a yes, but it’s close enough. Arthur feels almost relieved. “I’ll arrange something with Charles, I know we can trust him.” 

John nods, drops his gaze back down to his food, looks like he’s contemplating his future without the Van der Linde gang. 

Arthur settles a hand on the forearm that John has resting on top of the table. Warm and comforting. “Hey, now, I don’t want you to think you have to leave just cause I am,” Arthur assures. “Hell, you’re grown, you can make your own decisions. I’ll drop you off somewhere near Ambarino and give you some money to get a taxi if that’s what you’d prefer.” 

John shakes his head like that’s the last thing he’d want. “No, I’m goin’ with you.” 

Arthur doesn’t move his hand and he smiles for the first time that morning. Smiles for what seems like the first time in forever. “Thank you, John.” 

\- - -

  
Arthur texts Charles once they get back outside in the parking lot. He tells him to meet them somewhere close to Ambarino, that it’s important. To tell Dutch he’s stopping for gas or something if he has to, but otherwise not to say anything. 

Charles texts back within a few minutes, and Arthur’s already back on the road so he passes John his phone and has him read it to him. 

“He said he’ll meet us at a gas station near Mount Hagen. He’ll call when he gets there.” John says, passes Arthur his phone back. 

Arthur drops his phone back in the cupholder and settles both hands back on the steering wheel. This is it, the road to the rest of their lives. 

John is - of course - flipping through the radio stations again. Advertisements, news reports, a local basketball game, a song that Arthur wouldn’t have minded listening to. He’s nervous, and Arthur doesn’t blame him. The boy’s had a lot to think about within the past few minutes. 

He settles on some local hard rock station that he’d passed up at least three times already and leans back in his seat, pulls out his phone. 

“I’m texting Abigail,” John answers any unspoken paranoia he thinks Arthur might have at the chance of him texting the wrong person and telling them their plans. Arthur might’ve been hurt at the lack of trust John thinks Arthur might have in him, but due to current circumstances, John is allowed to be a bit jumpy. 

“You want her to come with us?” Arthur glances over at John, who’s picking at his lip as he stares down at his phone. A bad habit John’s possessed for almost all the years Arthur’s known him, leaving his lips always either chapped or bloody. “I know you two used to be kinda sweet on each other.” 

“We’re just friends, we tried dating a couple of years back but it never really worked out,” John’s eyes are still glued to his screen, and Arthur has to fight down the urge to yank his fingers away from his lips. “I just told her where she could find us, and not to say anything. I don’t believe she would but - y’know, just bein’ safe,” 

“Where’d you tell her?”

“I thought we agreed on New Austin,” John glances up at Arthur with this, and the other man nods. 

“Just makin’ sure,” Arthur feels the corner of his mouth quirk up, maybe at the thought of being surrounded by dry, warm land instead of cold snowy mountains. Maybe at just John in general. “New Austin it is, then.” 

Arthur glances over at John again, the other having resorted to having his whole goddamn fingernail in his mouth, teeth scraping at the chipped black nail polish painted on them. “I thought you two always made a pretty cute couple.” 

John looks back up at him, scoffs, and then looks like he didn’t mean to. “She ain’t my type.”

This makes Arthur’s lips jerk up into a full-fledged grin, humourous and teasing. “Oh yeah? And what is John Marston’s type?”

If Arthur had let his eyes falter back to the road, he would’ve missed the way John’s gaze is cast to his face, lets it drift down Arthur’s torso and then back to his phone so quick that Arthur almost could believe it didn’t happen. But it did, as if answering the question for him. 

It takes him a second but John finally manages a, “Why d’you care what my type is?” Arthur looks back to the interstate traffic, because he doesn’t have to look at John to know he’s smiling. His voice practically reeks of it. 

“I don’t,” Arthur shrugs. Lies. “Just wonderin’.” 

“Yeah, right,” John says as if reading him like a book. “You hopin’ I’d say it was you?”

“Nope,” Arthur tries managing his expression, and it’s difficult. “Like I said, just wonderin’.” 

A few minutes pass, the radio filling in the silence that’s settled between the two. Still, it’s not tense. Breathable. Arthur uses the time to fall back into his own head. He doesn’t even notice when John stretches an arm across the back of Arthur’s seat. Doesn’t even notice when his fingers come up next to Arthur’s head. He does notice, however, when John flicks him on the back of the ear. _Hard._

So John is messing with him, now. The wry little grin John has plastered on his face says that maybe he’s _flirting_ with him. Fine. Okay. Whatever. 

Arthur snaps his gaze to John, glaring and momentarily spooked, hand slapped around the side of his head, his ear numbly tingling with the previous contact. John’s arm is back against his torso, where it was originally, and he’s looking out the window now like he’s trying to play innocent. 

“Marston, what the _hell_?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Arthur can see in the window’s reflection that John still has that stupid smile on his face. 

“The hell you don’t,” Arthur lets his hand fall back to the steering wheel, shifts in his seat, fighting back the same dumbass smile from appearing on his features as well. “You pull somethin’ like that again, I’ll sit your ass out on the side of the road.” 

“Oh no,” John feigns, mock-hurt. “Then you’ll never find out who my type is.” 

\- - -

They meet Charles out at some interstate truck stop gas station, surrounded by miles and miles of flat grassy fields. Charles eyes them warily as he hops down from the driver’s seat of the truck but his tone never hints at the suspicion. 

“What’s goin’ on?” The question comes from Charles as casually as it ever did, like they’re just stopping for lunch together and Arthur didn’t in fact ask him to make a strange pit stop behind Dutch’s back. Derailing Dutch’s plan. Arthur never thought of himself to have the nerve. 

“We need our bikes,” Arthur cuts to the chase. Who knows where Dutch and Hosea are, who knows where the rest of the gang are. 

Arthur’s sending up every silent prayer he knows to every god he knows that one of the members doesn’t notice the truck hauling all their bikes sitting on the side of the road at this gas station. John must feel Arthur’s unease, because he’s glancing over his shoulder every five seconds like they’re conducting a drug deal. 

“Okay,” Charles says slowly. Slowly walks over to the back of the truck. Slowly pulls the back doors open, slowly sets out the ramp. Arthur feels like time’s going in slow motion, or someone’s holding an invisible gun to Charles’s head. 

Everything’s set out and Arthur can see his and John’s bikes in the truck. Charles asks again, “What’s going on?” 

“It’s difficult to explain,” Arthur supplies, because hell, he had a trip just trying to explain all this to John earlier this morning. But, still, he owes Charles an explanation, which the other man is still waiting very patiently for. 

John wastes no time, however, rushing by the two of them and leading his own bike down the ramp and over to the back of Arthur’s truck. “You gonna come help me with this or you just lazin’ about?” 

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Charles says, because he’s not stupid, of course, he knows what’s going on. Maybe he was just trying to see if Arthur would admit to it himself. 

Arthur walks over to John to help him hoist his bike in the back of his truck, Charles follows. 

Charles says, “Dutch isn’t gonna like this.” 

“I know, and I’m sorry but - look, I’ve done a lotta thinkin’ about this,” Arthur assures, John rushing by him to fetch Arthur’s bike like he’s just had a week’s worth of caffeine. 

“I trust you have,” Charles says, and Arthur knows he has good intentions, he does, but - “Dutch isn’t well.” 

“How’d you mean,” Arthur asks, reaching out and putting a hand on the handle of his bike as John leads it by them, halting his efforts. 

“He’s just different, things don’t feel right,” Charles explains. “I assume that’s your reason for leaving.”

“More or less,” Arthur lets go of his bike and helps John get it in the back of the truck along with John’s. “D’you wanna come with us?” 

Charles shakes his head, eyes leaving Arthur’s face to falter on the concrete below his feet. He looks almost defeated in a way that it stirs something in Arthur. A desire to help this man, still so loyal against his better knowledgement that he’s willing to ride it out to see if the situation gets any better. 

Arthur feels a pang of guilt, the reminder of his own betrayal of a sworn loyalty hits him in the face. He feels the need to distract himself from the moment and turns back to shut the door to the back of his truck while John stands in the bed of it, securing the bikes to the truck. 

“No, not yet,” Charles says from behind him. “I will when it feels right, go to Canada maybe, I don’t know.” 

In this moment, Arthur wishes he were more skilled with any form of improvisation on words, because he simply doesn’t know what to say. He just turns back to face Charles, almost wishing he could have John’s disconnection overpowered with the impatience to get back within safety. 

“I don’t blame you two for leaving.” Charles says, accepting an apology Arthur hadn’t given. 

John jumps down from the back of the truck and gives out the apology instead. “We’re sorry, Charles,” like he’s a scolded child talking to a parent. 

“Don’t be sorry for being selfish about something like this,” Charles waves off John’s words. “I understand where your concerns lie, and they’re well-placed - this is hardly a safe time to be with the gang right now, despite what Dutch may say.”

“Well, that’s his talent - saying things,” Arthur says. “Making people believe in what they know isn’t right.”

Charles gives a nod, like he knows Arthur’s words are true yet he doesn’t want to admit to it outloud. “You two should get going.” 

Arthur wishes he knew how to tell Charles he’s gonna miss him, so instead he just pulls Charles into a hug. “Goodbye, brother,” Arthur huffs against Charles’ shoulder. “You take care of yourself, alright?” 

When they pull away, Charles is pulling John into a one-armed hug, which John falls easily into. “You as well. Take care of each other.” 

Arthur and John watch as Charles goes and pulls down the back door of his truck and hops back up into the driver’s seat. They watch him pull out and back onto the road, heading towards a destination they, themselves have no intention of reaching. 

\- - -

  
When they get back in Arthur’s truck, John’s phone vibrates and he pulls it out of the pocket of his leather jacket, fingers automatically flying on the screen. 

“Abigail?” Arthur pulls back out onto the road, heads back the way they came and gets back on the interstate. New Austin bound. 

“Yeah,” John’s wearing this lopsided grin on his face, humored by either something Abigail said or Arthur being curious as to who he’s texting. “Why? You jealous?” 

Arthur breathes out a laugh of his own, manages his best sarcastic “Sure,” and flips to a radio station that isn’t playing Iron Maiden or Judas Priest while John’s attention is elsewhere. 

\- - - 

It won’t be long before Dutch starts to realize what they’ve done. By the time they’re entering West Elizabeth, they should’ve been in Ambarino. It won’t be long before their phones start ringing, at first with worried check-up calls. Maybe they’d slept in, maybe they’re on the side of the road with a flat. Then, knowing Dutch and his flair for the dramatic, will start sending them paragraphs of text messages questioning why they have betrayed him. How they were the black sheep amongst his flock. No-good traitors. Bastards. Voicemails of Dutch screaming. 

Like he’s some broken-hearted girl they just broke up with. 

Arthur drives and drives, putting plenty of miles between them and Ambarino. He drives until the sun’s setting, he drives until they’re passing through Strawberry, and then the Great Plains. He drives until his gas light comes on and they’re forced to take the exit at Thieves Landing. 

They pull up to a chain gas station about half a mile off the exit and Arthur picks up his phone. No missed calls yet. He puts his phone on silent, tells John to do the same. 

“You need anythin’?” Arthur asks, taking off his seatbelt and opening the car door. 

“Yeah, get me some candy,” John says without looking up from his phone. His feet are no longer propped up on the dashboard, he sits straight up, head bowed down to look at his phone, the relaxed demeanor he wore previously completely vanished. 

He’s tense, now, and has been since they left Charles. They both are. 

“M&M’s?” Arthur gets out of the truck, closes the door, and looks at John through his open window. He wants to tell him to relax, but doesn’t. As if it’d do any good. 

“Yep,” John answers, and Arthur starts to walk off. 

He comes back to the driver’s side door, ducks his head down. “Peanuts?” 

John looks up at this, a smile small but genuine on his features. “You know me so well,” His tone is joking, probably masking the surprise at Arthur actually remembering his damn candy preference. 

“Unfortunately,” Arthur feels himself mirroring this smile, and his words hold nothing but a fondness so raw that he can practically feel it radiating off himself. He’s ducking away from the truck and off towards the gas station before the moment becomes too much and he’s embarrassing himself over something as little as remembering what kind of candy John likes. 

Yet, there’s a lot about John that Arthur remembers. He remembers the small scar on John’s left index finger when he and Arthur played Five Finger Fillet. He remembers that John gets mustard on his hamburgers instead of mayonnaise. He remembers that John takes his coffee with no cream and a shit-ton of sugar. 

All little details that seem useless yet important taking up a section of Arthur’s brain. It seems worth it every once in a while to use some of this useless information to surprise John, just as he did, and remind John that he cares. Remind John that he loves him. 

Maybe in a different way than Arthur originally thought he did. 

He’s reaching out to grab the handle of the door and his phone vibrates in his pocket. _Shit._ He put it on vibrate instead of silent, and there’s Dutch as if right on cue. 

Arthur pulls out his phone as he steps into the gas station, expecting to see Dutch’s name on the screen but instead sees John’s. He stops, glancing out at his truck through the glass wall, and answers it. 

“What?” 

“You forgot something,” John’s voice is calm on the other end. 

“ _What_?” Arthur’s still peering out at his truck. “No, I didn’t.” 

John sighs, the noise coming out crackly through the phone, and he sounds like maybe he’s about to laugh. “Yeah, you did. Just - come back out here.”

Arthur ends the call with a frustrated groan, puts his phone on silent before he forgets, and shoves it back in his pocket before walking back out to his truck. 

He rounds the back of his truck to find John leaning up against the passenger door, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. The smoke coming off it falters up in the air, the overhead lights illuminating it until it disperses. Whatever this is he’s pulling, by the look on his face, he finds it oddly amusing. 

“What is it?” Arthur asks, annoyed. His arms open. 

John takes another drag off his cigarette before pulling it away, blowing the smoke off to the side so it’s not right in Arthur’s face. “Come here,” 

Arthur thinks for a brief second John’s about to hit him, but his feet carry him towards John anyway. 

He’s reminded of doing the same thing to John when he was younger, a couple of years after Dutch had brought him in. The big brotherly act of luring him in and then punching him for the hell of it. To see the shock on John’s face as he let himself be lured in time and time again. He trusted Arthur, he always did, and the memory of it now sends a pang of guilt to his chest. 

When Arthur is inches away from him, John reaches out and grabs Arthur by his shirt with his free hand. He pulls him in and he kisses him. Lips smashing against Arthur’s. Arthur more or less falls into the kiss, surprised but not fighting it. 

Quick and sloppy like it’s meaningless. John tastes like cigarettes and the root beer he ordered to-go from Denny’s, now watered down and forgotten in the cupholder of Arthur’s truck. 

John kisses him hard, like he’s trying to bruise Arthur’s lips. It’s not the best kiss Arthur’s ever had in his life, but damn, it’s _something._ He’s kissing John back, hands still idle by his side, and John’s gone. Pulling back, lets go of Arthur’s shirt like it never even happened. 

When Arthur opens his eyes again, John’s putting the cigarette back in his mouth. The corner of his mouth not occupied with the cigarette is quirked up. 

Arthur doesn’t know what to say, and he’s just standing there, staring at John and John’s staring right back at him. Arthur kinda, really wants to kiss him again, but he doesn’t. He isn’t sure he could if he tried. 

“I want a slushie, too.” John says, cigarette bobbing around the words. He’s leaned back up against the truck now but his gaze is still settled on Arthur, maybe waiting for a reaction. 

“Cherry?” the word comes out almost gruff, like Arthur’s just woken up from a deep sleep. 

This makes John smile even wider, nods in confirmation and Arthur’s turning back towards the gas station for a second time. 

“There’s your answer, by the way,” John calls out when Arthur’s rounding the back of his truck again. 

He stops, turns back towards John. “To what?”

John scoffs like Arthur should’ve already known the question. If Arthur’s mind wasn’t foggy with the events that took place within the past few seconds, maybe he might’ve. “To what my type is.” 

“Oh,” Arthur says, simply, and heads back in the gas station, leaving John behind before he can distract him any further. 

Arthur would've thought that anyone fitting his description was the farthest thing from John's type, he really didn't see _anyone_ describing himself as their type. 

So, John had a thing for tall burly blonde bikers. Huh, who knew?

Arthur waits in line with peanut M&M’s and a cherry slushie for John, and a blue raspberry slushie for himself, all snuggled together against his chest with his left arm. He pulls out his phone with his right hand and pulls up Hosea’s name under his text messages. 

_I'm sorry. Take care of him._

He sends it before his own guilt can talk him out of it. It’s a hard decision to leave behind Hosea and all those Arthur loved and thought of as family. Even Dutch, it’s hard to ignore the sacrifices Dutch made for him alone. But, the future leaves Arthur hopeful, and with John in it, the both of them alive and well, it all seems worth it. 

He’s tired of robbing, and killing, and fighting. He tired of running and sleeping on some bare, shitty mattress in an abandoned warehouse turned clubhouse. 

Arthur wants an apartment tucked away in some quiet corner of New Austin, maybe in the suburban area of Armadillo. He wants John, lounging on a brand new sofa they bought together, feet propped up in Arthur’s lap as they watch TV, talking about nothing and everything. He wants a dog, friendly and playful like Copper was, jumping up on the bed and waking him and John up every morning, barking and licking at their faces. He wants a boring, 9 to 5 job with no risk. No worry about being killed just to earn a paycheck. 

He wants to be the type he used to rob, the ones he found so miserable because they had peace in their life. 

Arthur glances back out at his truck and he thinks maybe he’s found that peace. 

\- - -

They stop at a steakhouse a few miles away from Hennigan’s Stead because John reminds him that they haven’t really eaten since breakfast and they’re both starving. 

They’re seated in a booth amongst dim lighting, old vintage memorabilia and neon beer signs hanging on every inch of the walls, and country music filtering out through unseen speakers. It’s almost like a smack in the face that they’ve arrived in New Austin. 

It takes him a few minutes in between taking in their surroundings for Arthur to realize John has been staring at him from across the table. He smiles, open-mouthed and toothy, when Arthur’s attention settles on him, and he’s picking at his lip again. 

“Nice place you picked, _cowboy,_ ” John says, and he looks so _young_ under the dusty warm lighting coming off the lamp hanging over their table. He looks like he’s nearing twenty again and Arthur’s sneaking him beers in some sports bar back in Blackwater. Free from worry and big, brown eyes shining with life. 

Arthur huffs out a laugh, leaning forward with his arms crossed on the table, and it’s like John’s the sun, shining so brightly that Arthur has to take his eyes off him and gaze out the window at the parking lot instead. The smile’s still lingering on his lips when he suggests, “How about Armadillo?” 

“What about it?” 

“As in the place we’ll be livin’,” Arthur says, turning his head to settle his gaze on John once again. 

“Together?” John leans forward with this, raises his eyebrows like he’s actually surprised at the idea. Arthur’s surprised that John’s surprised - he hadn’t originally seen it any other way. 

“Yes, if that’s what you want,” Arthur’s voice is slow and cautious, getting the urge to backpedal. Afraid maybe he’s put all his eggs in the wrong basket. “We could get an apartment, split the rent - I don’t know,”

“Hm,” John hums out the word, eyebrows twitching up as his gaze falters down to the table. “Wasn’t sure you’d wanna room with me.” 

“I don’t see why not,” Arthur smiles at John’s modesty, a trait Arthur finds himself easily forgetting that John possesses since it’s always hidden beneath his insatiable need to prove himself. “Hell, we shared a room back in Blackwater, I ain’t sure I’d be able to fall asleep without hearing you snorin’ and yappin’ about nothing.” 

The jab at John’s sleep habits falls short, Arthur’s words sounding more fond than irritated, and it has John leaning back in the booth as if to control his composure. Arthur would’ve missed the way John glances out the window in an attempt to hide the smile that overtakes his features had Arthur not been looking right at him.

The waitress brings their food, and John’s too busy trying to wipe the dopey grin off his face to spare her the slightest of flirty glances. 

Neither one of them mentions the kiss, yet the fact that it happened seems to hang in the air between them. It doesn’t make the atmosphere tense between them, just _different_. John’s all but acted like some teenager with a crush, opening doors for Arthur, leaving warm lingering touches when necessary, staring at his mouth constantly when he talked. Arthur has tried keeping the same composure he always held around John but it’s proving to be a difficult task at best. 

Especially when John keeps acting like this is a date. 

Maybe it is. 

\- - -

They settle on a hotel about half a mile away from the restaurant. Arthur’s sent out a few emails to some of the landlords of several two-bedroom apartments in Armadillo. He and John both have at least 20 missed calls from Dutch and several voicemails that neither of them have listened to yet. 

John is in the shower when Arthur’s phone lights up with Dutch’s number again. He tosses it down on the bed, lets it ring as he flips through the channels on the TV. 

It’s an unsettling feeling, knowing that’s a phone call Arthur can probably never answer again. Ignoring Dutch feels childish and gutless, yet Arthur isn’t even sure what he’d say to Dutch if he did pick up the phone. 

That he’s sorry? Because, he’s not. 

That he’ll come back? Because, he won’t. 

Arthur has nothing to say to Dutch, absolutely nothing, and several missed phone calls or angry voicemails won’t change that. 

Dutch doesn’t leave a voicemail this time, and Arthur’s phone is revealing his lockscreen again with a new notification of another missed call. Arthur turns off his phone, reaches over and sits it on the bedside table. Put away and forgotten. 

Tomorrow, he and John will be in Armadillo, hundreds and hundreds of miles away from Ambarino and Dutch van der Linde. 

\- - -

John comes out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, running another one through his damp hair. The faint steam from the shower follows him out through the open door. 

He moves to stand at the foot of his bed, glancing between the TV and where Arthur is laid back on his own bed. 

Arthur’s still dressed, save for his boots, which have been knocked off and discarded by the door. John figured out how to override the hotel thermostat, setting it on a stuffy 75 degrees, instantly making Arthur pry off his jacket and drape it over the back of the chair sitting beside his bed. 

“Bathroom’s free,” John offers, maybe in hopes that Arthur will take the opportunity and leave the TV remote free for John’s taking. Arthur looks up and follows John’s gaze to the remote in his hand. Maybe he does know John better than he originally thought. 

“Nah,” Arthur waves him off, just to get the advantage. “I’ll take a shower in the morning before we leave.” He’s probably overdue for one, but if it gives Arthur the opportunity to see John get all fussy over which channel they’re watching, it’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make. 

“Suit yourself,” John mumbles, and settles down on the edge of his bed, one foot wrapped underneath him and the other dangling off the side. He reaches over and grabs for his phone, exchanging it with the towel he used to dry his hair. 

“Dutch called again,” Arthur says, and John glances over his shoulder at him before glancing back down at his phone. 

“Yeah, he called me too.” The room feels tense at the mention of Dutch, and Arthur wishes he still didn’t have that power over the two of them. Like the mere mention of his name was enough to strike fear. “Abigail said he’s pissed.” 

“I don’t doubt that,” Arthur breaths out a humorless chuckle. He can almost see the frustration on Dutch’s face as he calls them for the umpteenth time without getting an answer. Threatening and vowing to find them as soon as he can, Hosea reminding him of the list of places he’s wanted in, only allowing him a very limited amount of free roam. 

Dutch is wanted in probably enough states to land him on the FBI’s top ten most wanted list. That, and the miles separating Dutch from him and John makes Arthur remind himself they’re safe. They’re okay. 

When John doesn’t say anything else, Arthur lets his gaze drift over to where John sits. His bare back still shiny with water from the shower, muscles firm and wiry underneath the skin. The tattoo of a wolf on his upper arm, the tattoo of a snake wrapped around his forearm below it. His other arm still patched up with freshly-changed bandages, caused by an injury that seemed to happen so long ago. Black hair hanging in long, damp tendrils across his shoulders. 

Arthur wants to tell him how _pretty_ he looks right now, he wants to tell him how fucking grateful he is that John agreed to come along with him. 

Arthur’s never been good with words, so instead, he just says, “Hey,” and it’s enough to get John’s attention. His head snapping back to peer at Arthur over his shoulder. Eyes wide and curious. 

Arthur gestures lazily with the hand not holding the remote. “Come here.” John’s words used to lure Arthur to him in the parking lot so many miles ago. 

John squints at him, confused, like maybe he didn’t hear Arthur right. 

Arthur sits up a little, clears his throat, and tries again. “Come here.” 

John sits his phone down on the bed and gets up, a hand reaching down to make sure his towel is still securely in place. He approaches Arthur with the same look Arthur’s sure he wore himself earlier. Like Arthur’s about to hit him. 

Arthur waits until John’s just a few inches away before grabbing his arm and pulling John down into his lap and he kisses him. 

John gasps into his mouth, surprised, but gets with the program pretty quickly, hands moving to clutch at Arthur’s shoulders and kissing him back with matched intensity. Arthur holds him in place, his own hands settling on John’s hips and then wrapping around his torso and up his lower back to feel the skin there. 

“Don’t worry about Dutch,” Arthur murmurs against John’s lips, breathing in the smell of generic hotel soap still lingering on John’s skin. He places a few kisses against the corner of John’s mouth, chapped with neglect, and moves to place a few more along his jawline. Sweet and gentle compared to their earlier assault. 

John huffs out a laugh. “I’m not,” the humor faltering off into a groan as Arthur mouths at his neck. “‘Specially not now.” 

“Don’t ever,” Arthur clarifies, lips damp against John’s skin. He feels John’s long fingers snake up to the back of his head, tangled in his hair, the other hand still clutching at the shoulder of Arthur’s t-shirt. 

It’s protective in a way that Arthur realizes John doesn’t need, and if used out of context, might be taken the wrong way. Arthur’s not whisking John away because he needs to be saved, John could handle his own against Dutch and whatever army Dutch decided to bring with him just as well as Arthur could. 

Arthur likes this about John, aside from the many, many other things he likes about John. He likes John’s narrow waist and his long delicate limbs that makes his figure seem almost too dainty for any outlaw biker to possess. He likes John’s wide, calloused hands and his broad shoulders that make his torso look like an upside down triangle. 

John isn’t here because he needs to be protected, he’s here because he wants to be here and Arthur wants him here. Arthur likes that about him too. 

Arthur knows that John would worry about Dutch in the same sense that he would, himself. The power that Dutch holds, not just in general but over them as well. The feeling that they’re doing something wrong by ignoring Dutch’s calls, the feeling that they’re doing something forbidden just by wanting a better life for themselves. It’s a seed that Dutch planted there himself and it’s bloomed in both of them just as it has for every other member of the gang. 

Dutch has always known how to get under someone’s skin and stay there. No matter how far they stray. 

Now, though, with John’s panted breaths hot against his ear and John’s torso pressed up against him warm and comforting, it’s easy for Arthur to will these thoughts away. He focuses instead on the sound John makes when he drags his teeth across the dip of where his neck meets his shoulder, and wonders what other sounds he can pry from John’s mouth. 

He has all night to do so. 

\- - -

John talks during sex just as much as he does in his sleep, only this is quite different. Instead of consistent incoherent mumbling, John fills the room with slurred praises and curses at Arthur’s expense. Gasping like he’s been burned, groaning like he’s been punched. 

Arthur doesn’t mind how vocal John is, considering how he seems to always have something to say anyway. Arthur isn’t sure if he thought this would be any different. 

John’s still seated in Arthur’s lap, moving with Arthur’s thrusts. Sweaty hands grasping onto the headboard for leverage. Arthur’s only half-way sitting up, sinking down into the pillows some time prior, so now he’s just looking up at John hovering over him. Watching John like he’s the most incredible thing Arthur’s ever seen. 

The towel previously wrapped around John’s hips is now laying on the carpet beside the bed, along with Arthur’s clothes. The headboard bangs against the wall when John loosens his grip, and he readjusts it, clutching onto it with the same white knuckle grasp he previously held onto Arthur with. 

They’re both covered with a light sheen of sweat, John’s hair already damp again with it, and everything is so warm that when John lets one of his clammy hands fall to Arthur’s shoulders to stabilize himself it feels like a goddamn relief. 

John’s got his lower lip caught between his teeth, his eyebrows furrowed together like he’s focused. A look Arthur’s seen him wear when he’s fixing his bike, a look that Arthur never thought he’d see in this context. Arthur can only imagine what he, himself, looks like, staring up at John with his mouth hanging open like he’s absolutely astonished by him. 

John seems to like Arthur’s gaze on him, seems to be goaded on by it. He’ll glance down at Arthur, eyelids heavy, and get this smirk on his face before fixing his gaze back on the headboard or just letting his eyes roll shut completely. 

Arthur wants to kiss him, he’s never wanted to kiss anybody so badly in his life as much as he wants to kiss John Marston right now. 

He takes a hand off John’s hip and moves it to the back of John’s head, pulling him down and smashing his lips against John’s in a way that’s more aggressive and desperate than romantic. John lets go of the headboard, and it collides against the wall again with another dull thud. 

Arthur kisses John so hard their lips will surely be bruised and swollen in the process, earning a few more strings of curses mumbled against Arthur’s lips. John’s back is arched enough that Arthur uses the space between them to snake a hand around John’s dick and John’s teeth are biting at Arthur’s lip now instead of his own. 

Arthur wonders how long John has wanted this, or if he even knew he wanted this. It’s so funny to think back to only a couple of days before when Arthur wasn’t even aware this was something he was capable of having. 

He should’ve pulled over on the side of the road and fucked John in the passenger’s seat of his truck when he’d asked John what his type was. He should’ve fucked John when they shared a room back at the Blackwater clubhouse, loud music muffled by the closed door and only the cold glow coming from the TV to illuminate the room. Maybe things would’ve been different if he had’ve. 

It doesn’t take long to get John off, and he’s pulled back from the kiss, face hovering over Arthur’s. He’s almost grateful, being able to see the look on John’s face when he comes, all over Arthur’s hand and all over Arthur’s stomach. 

He’s making sounds that Arthur didn’t know he was capable of, short blunt fingernails digging into the flesh of Arthur’s shoulder, and he’s clenching up around Arthur, too, and it’s enough to bring Arthur off along with him. 

Arthur lifts his head up, just enough that his forehead is brushing against John’s collarbone and John scrambles to accommodate the movement, both hands settled down on either side of Arthur and gripping at the sheets. Arthur makes a sound like he’s had all the wind knocked out of him when he comes. Unsteady breaths huffed out against John’s skin. 

They hold that position for a few moments, breathing hard like the both of them just ran miles and miles, until John rolls off of Arthur and onto his back with a grunt. Arthur feels like he’s freezing and burning up at the same time, and they both stare up at the ceiling as they catch their breath. 

Arthur hears John mutter out a, “Christ alive,” shakily breathed out like he’s exhausted and overwhelmed at the same time. He, too, can feel the exhaustion catching up with him, derived from both the long day and the sex. 

John turns over on his side to face Arthur, and Arthur can feel the other man’s eyes practically burning a hole through him so he turns his head to look back at John. 

John’s face is blank for a mere second before his lips are stretching back into their familiar smirk. “I think you might want that shower now.” 

Arthur agrees, but rolls his eyes with no real aggravation behind them. He sits up with a groan, swings his legs around the side of the bed and glances over his shoulder at John once more. 

“I think you might need another one yourself.” 

\- - - 

Arthur pays the deposit and the first month’s rent and utilities on a two-bedroomed apartment on the outskirts of Armadillo. Empty with a view of the Armadillo skyline, white-painted walls to match their white appliances. They own nothing apart from their bikes, Arthur’s truck, and now an apartment that seems vastly too big for any of the furniture they will come to buy. 

They’d seen it before during a tour with the landlord but now, the place seemed different. It   
different in a way that Arthur couldn’t determine. 

John is the first to walk in when Arthur unlocks the door, stopping short in the middle of the living room and glancing around with that dopey smile of his. 

There’s so much to go on now from here with, to maintain this life they finally have a start on. Arthur starts work tomorrow as a ranch hand at a local farm a few miles away and John’s been entertaining the idea of becoming a mechanic and possibly going through a program to get his certificate for a higher pay. 

Then, everything will be settled, and they’ll be okay. It’s so fucking hard to believe they’ll be okay. 

“Damn,” John breathes out the word, admiringly, and he turns around to face Arthur, who’s still lingering by the door. “It’s a pretty nice place, huh?” 

“It’s yours,” Arthur says automatically, simply. Shrugs the words off like it’s nothing, his feet carrying him to the middle of the living room with John. 

John huffs out a laugh at this, smiling in a way that makes Arthur think that he’ll never get tired of seeing him like this. Smiling. Happy. 

“You’re an idiot,” John’s voice is still so full with surprised bliss and he pulls Arthur into a kiss. It’s gentle and simple, and John can’t seem to stop smiling against Arthur’s lips and he pulls away, his hands still wrapped around Arthur’s arms. "You used your life savings to buy me slushies and an apartment?"

 _Not all of it,_ Arthur wants to assure John, because then, he really would've been an idiot. 

“A thank-you would be more sufficient,” Arthur feigns, and he can’t help but mirror John’s expression. 

John pretends to consider this a moment. “Thank you, idiot,” and pulls him in for another kiss. 


End file.
